


Impasse

by foundCarcosa



Category: Fable (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-17
Updated: 2011-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:04:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Making an irrevocable bargain is only the first step in becoming a legend, and the Shadow Judges are not the only ones who hold trial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impasse

She is willowy and refined, and reminds Reaver of someone he'd once known. For that reason, if none other, he should have let her be with a sly smile and a waggle of his fingers.  
But she would have come anyway, beckoned by the ever-present promise in his eyes. They always did.

"Lady Weatherby," she introduces herself, but Reaver knows better. Plain Jane Weatherby from Bower Lake is no Lady. Oh, she is classy, certainly, and has the charms of a snake if she'd managed to slither her way into one of his exclusive parties -- but no Lady. The only reason he hasn't had her soundly patted on the bottom and removed from his premises is the wave in her golden tresses, the pout of her cupid's-bow lips. And the secret in her baby blues, the secret she won't spill in such polite company. Reaver's curiosity has waned little over the decades.

Strains of some insufferable, wordless tune sifts through the air, played by hired guns with poker faces and ramrod-straight backs. The polite murmur of chatter is only a decibel above. Reaver stifles a yawn, places a manicured hand at _Lady_  Weatherby's back, and leads her into the cool night.

"Your home is quite charming," et cetera; she makes vapid small talk as she's expected to, and Reaver pretends to listen as he's expected to. Bloodstone Manor shrinks behind them, and Reaver begins to think that she's leading him, instead of the reverse.

"We'll sit here," he finally murmurs, a gloved hand listing to the left of him to indicate a bench shrouded in the shadow of an elm.

But Jane, Jane Blue-Eyes, Jane-with-the-secret, only smiles, chuckles, urges him onward.  
Reaver's teeth grind. Reaver keeps his mouth shut, and walks.

They walk, and Bloodstone falls away behind them, and bile churns in Reaver's belly when he realises the ground is shuddering beneath them. His head jerks in a quick shake, but his voice doesn't, not yet. "We've gone too far, my lady. My guests cannot be kept waiting for this long, not for you or anyone else. Speak now, or don't, but we _are_  returning..."

His firm tone, a tone he's practised diligently, falls upon deaf ears. Jane Weatherby is smiling at him, but not in that simpering manner that she'd used prior. She smiles the way Theresa smiles, that quirk of the lips that makes Reaver's blood-stone heart judder in his throat.  
"But I haven't anything to say. I wanted to _show_  you something. It's not far along, now..."

"Woman, we are _not_  setting foot in that cursed place." He's put his foot down, but his foot is sinking in soupy ground. She's tugging him along, and he wrenches his arm out of her grasp and raises it, lip peeling back off his teeth as his hand vibrates in midair. He can't slap her. He finds that odd, but there are many things odd about this experience, and he hasn't the presence of mind to consider this particular moment of impotence.

He cannot turn on his heel and leave her, either. He knows, because he's tried.  
"You recognise me," Jane whispers, nodding. He's nodding too, neck tight and a vein pulsing in his temple just under the sweep of his lustrous hair. He recognises her.

"I won't apologise," he hisses through gritted teeth, "to _you_ , or to _her_." The marsh is creeping up his legs, and he shudders to think of how much it will cost him to replace his trousers.  
She mistakes the shiver for fear. "You _will_ , Reaver. I'll see to it. And so will Oakvale."

He loses his footing when the ground shakes again, and distantly he hears the mind-melting wail of a banshee. The marsh rises to meet him as he falls forward, onto his knees. She's laughing now, the _witch_ , a cunning harpy of a woman just like that mother of hers, with her swaying hips and that coy toss of her head. Witch, witch, liesmith and _man-eater_...

" _Reaver_ , what a silly name for a mere man, a man who could not even keep a single woman happy. Reaver, Reaver, illusion-weaver..."  
Her mocking tone mimics the banshee's song, and Reaver's stomach lurches, but his hands scrabble at water and sodden earth whilst his knees slither and slip around uselessly, and if he cannot _stand_  and face what's coming then he is _done for_  -- a man always stands to face his demise, he _always_  stands, and he _certainly_ doesn't weep--

" _You cannot meet your demise by our hand. We are merely agents, doing the work of the Judges, and the Judges shall see to Jane Weatherby. But you prove yourself weak and daft, shadow-pawn, that you should allow yourself to be led here, to lands upon which you were ordered never to set foot again. And your guilt, it festers. You cannot hide from us.  
"We do not suffer fools, or martyrs, or sick, sad children. Next time, the Judges will see to _you _, bereft one."_

Nights hence, Reaver finds that his hand has stopped shaking as he nears the end of his diary entry, and the flourishes in his penmanship have gotten larger, and his face twitches in a brittle little smile, a smile that will soften into bliss as he keeps drinking. His life is beautiful now. He must learn to be appreciative, just as others must learn that he hasn't a heart or soul to offer them in return for their adoration.  
Adoration. Yes, his life is beautiful, indeed.

 _"...What a weak, despicable man he is. But I am not he. I am Reaver. And I will sleep much better after this chalice of wine."_


End file.
